


Something Simple

by Swindlefingers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/pseuds/Swindlefingers





	Something Simple

Knight-Commander Guylian swings and twists at the end of a rope in Kirkwall’s fetid, afternoon breeze. **  
**

Meredith rallies several of her chosen templars to her side. Her booming voice tearing through the din and the smoke filling the Gallows. They’re storming the Keep to make Viscount Threnhold pay for his treason and the death of Guylain.

As part of the contingent of templars left behind to make order from chaos, as is their sacred duty, Thrask finds a ladder to reach the rope that strings up Guylian. Samson holds his Knight-Commander’s lifeless legs and shoulders the weight of his corpse as Thrask severs the rope. The two lay him unceremoniously next to the rest of the templars that died today in Threnhold's surprise attack. Thrask loosens the noose around Guylian’s broken neck and wastes too many seconds staring at it his his hands. Samson snatches it from his grasp and flings the burning remains of a merchant’s cart.

They glance at each other before Thrask peels away to help carry wounded to the infirmary and Samson unsheathes his blade and joins a cohort picking through what remains of the Viscount’s hired mercenaries. They run through any left alive with their Maker-blessed swords. Their mutinous bodies are tossed into the Waking Sea.

Those templars not overly wounded return to their sacred duties and word reaches the Gallows that Meredith has captured the Keep and that Threnhold has been declared a traitor.

_Rap-rap. Rap-rap. Rap._

Samson raps five times on Thrask’s chamber door later that night, their not-so-secret code, before continuing on alone to the broom closet furthest from the dormitories.

He waits in the dark, leaning against the cold stone wall. The gruesome events of the day replay over and over in his head until the door creaks open and Thrask slips in, quietly closing the door behind him.

They reach for each other in the dark, they’re old hands at this. A decade of practice finding each other in corners and closets and rectories. Guylian never much cared about fraternization amongst the ranks, as long as the jobs were being done, but everyone knows Meredith isn’t the sort to let rules be bent or broken. They will suffer for this, together or apart. Others templars will suffer. The mages will suffer.

Thrask’s sigh whistles through his nose as their fingers intertwine. Samson squeezes his hand tight, half out of fear that Thrask will slip away from him in the darkness and half out of rage over what happened today. All that blood for a year of posturing by aristocrats and rich gits, rattling sabres, and who’ll be left to clean it all up and put everything back together? He and his will, like always, as ordained.

Suddenly, a shuttering sob erupts from Thrask. Samson brusquely pulls him into his arms, both to stifle the sound of Thrask’s sorrow and to comfort him. The man feels like a blessed anchor in his embrace, keeping Samson from floating away on a sea of anger and rash decisions.

Buring his face against Samson’s shoulder, Thrask’s tears trickle down Samson’s neck and he feels a few of his own tears spilling down his cheeks as he lets himself finally feel the grief welling inside of him.

Time passes slower in the dark places, especially in the silence. He could stay here all night, wrapped around Thrask, keeping him safe, keeping him loved, filling his head full of hope that they can get through this, that this won’t be forever, and that they can make things better at the Gallows. He can hold Thrask’s heart together, at least for tonight.

A quiet rap of three knocks on the broom closet door interrupts their mourning and signals that an unfriendly patrol will soon pass. A patrol who reports hidden things to Meredith and snoops in broom closets looking for mages to punish, and who won’t hesitate to report two templars meeting in secret.

Samson feels Thrask pull away to stand on his own feet. He misses the weight of Thrask against him. He hears Thrask’s quiet sniffling as he wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“What are we going to do?” Thrask whispers. His voice is rough from swallowing saltwater tears. He reaches out, cups Samson's jaw in his rough hands.

“Survive,” Samson quietly replies, resting his forehead against Thrask’s. He feels Thrask’s head rock up and down as he nods, and wipes at his nose one last time.

“Survive,” Thrask clears his throat and repeats. 

Something simple, a canticle to get them through the next few days, few weeks, until they can figure something out.

Thrask turns and cracks open the door behind him before turning back and clapping his hand against Samson’s neck, “Don’t do anything stupid tonight.” 

Samson leans in and presses his lips against Thrask’s. He can taste the tears on them, and his gut twists. Thrask returns the kiss with a sharp inhale, before breaking away, “That’s not an answer. Do you promise me? Nothing stupid?”

They’ve known each other too long, Thrask knows his tricks. Saying it will mean he’s duty bound to follow through. Sodding templars and their sodding honor.

“Aye, I promise,” Samson whispers in the darkness, “Nothing stupid.”


End file.
